A mist lay on the surface of the lake.
We seemed to swim in air
beneath that pre-dawn lemon-yellow light,
our bodies bare
and chilled within the boundaryless domain
where haze and water meet,
our fingers wrinkled, each of our toes numb,
and our hair wet.
The sun had climbed an intervening hill
and when at last it came
to the summit, it sent forth a single flare
like liquid flame.
Then suddenly the mist which had enclosed
us in a scattered glow,
a nimbus like the halo of a saint,
began to go.
And as the haze dried off we saw upon
the surface of the lake,
three swans, like tufts of white among the reeds,
barely awake.
Each swan had tucked a leg into its wing
and from its ankle shone,
on orange skin, a ring of antique gold
carved with a crown.
From each such ring depended a slim chain
linking it to another,
so that the three were inextricably
harnessed together.
We watched those white swans arch their supple necks
and felt their black eyes glare
as they rose from the surface of the lake, the maimed and lovely
Children of Lir.